There she was. Soaking wet, wailing, naked, right out of the sack. The doctor held her upside-down from the leg – dangling, she cried. Her cries rang across the silver plates, the sterilized scissors, the silent stethoscope, and it rang and rang across the room as it curved a smile on Ayesha’s face. Ayesha would remember that wail for a long time, and she would hear it two more times. Each time, it would bring her joy as she would lay cut open. 

     The third time's the charm, they said. It wasn’t for Ayesha. For the third time, it was a clitoris that popped up instead of a pair of testicles. Disappointment and pity crawled up inside her. Poor girl. Poor girl. Eyes drooling with anesthesia and apology, Ayesha drifted off to a slumber. The third girl cried. So did the first. The second stood silently. Everyone wonders what the second one thinks, but no one can know. No one can take it, hold it in their heart – the burden is too heavy to carry.

     So there they were, all of them dangling during different decades, from the hands of the surgeon, eyes full of pity. The last one was the trickiest. She was gray-eyed with rings of curly hair sitting on her huge head. The first one tried to hold her - alas, she was melting between the fingertips of her sister. The first tried to collect her, but she was escaping her hold – wobbly, fragile, decadent little thing, wiggling like a worm, struggling under the instance of existence as if some part of her knew she wouldn’t be loved. Never enough. 

     The other mother from the corner of the room noticed the attempts of the sister. 

     “Here,” she pleaded, “Let me help you.”

     And she let her. She cupped her arms against her chest, waiting for the other mother to hand her the vulnerable body – so easily breakable, she thought. The creature wiggled in her arm, squinting the pair of gray eyes, trying to decipher the rustle that shook her from sleep.

     I feel sorry for you, said the older sister. We are the girls they don’t want. We are the boys they won’t accept. Who are we?

     Who are we? echoed the little creature. Who are we, sang the bassinet. Who are we? Creaked the desolate door. 

     I am sorry, said the older sister. The gray-eyed creature blinked at her older sister. Unsure, yet to be exposed to the cruelty of the world, naive, she squinted.

     I’ll protect you, she promised. I will be there for you, she proclaimed. I promise to always look after you, she pleaded.

  The gray eyes were brimming with tears, threatening to overflow. She was yet to learn the rhythm of As and Zs, but something in her moved as the older sister cooed her apologies.

     She wasn’t soaking wet anymore; clothed, wrapped in a clean white towel, and hairs brushed gently with soft bristles of a comb, a wailing long silenced by the cacophony of clattering tongs and instruments – she would lay there again 30 years later in a bassinet bigger than the first one. Her older sister would stand there, watching over her, like she promised. 

     We are, whimpered the gray-eyed creature. 

     We always were, they cooed.